


History Repeats

by Astrum_Ululatum



Series: Precious Metals [6]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Amputation, Anxiety Disorder, Bisexual Character, Blood and Injury, Cruciatus Curse, Deaf Character, Deaf Percival Graves, Depression, Established Relationship, F/M, Investigations, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Percival Can't Catch a Break, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Torture, but nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-07-27 03:56:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16210907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrum_Ululatum/pseuds/Astrum_Ululatum
Summary: Quite suddenly, Daphne periscopes off his shoulder and when Percival cranes his neck to look up at her, he sees the crest of feathers about her head are raised defensively. Her beak is open in wide gape as she shrieks with such force that Percival can feel the vibrations of her voice against the side of his head where her body is pressed against his temple and ear. He glances briefly at Tina—who is staring, startled, past Percival—as he turns and—"Newt?"- - -The Collins Case comes to a dramatic conclusion.





	1. Recapture

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Page 28 by Sleeping At Last:
> 
> God, I’m skeptical of pulling scenes  
> Was it something that I said? Was it something that I did?  
> Please don’t get me wrong, I still need your help  
> As history repeats itself
> 
>  
> 
> Sorry for the wait, I wanted to make sure I had the entire fic finished and squared away before I posed anything, because, well... You'll see...

Newt has been in the hospital for three weeks. Percival visits him daily and talks until he loses his voice. In those three weeks, with thanks to Maurice Milton, over a dozen of Collins’ followers have been arrested and put behind bars. Most of them were found to have prior offenses or unpaid fines to supplement the _conspiring against law enforcement_ charges they have now been pinned with. It feels damned good to be crossing names off the list and each man arrested seems more and more willing to sell out those still at large. Perhaps that has something to do with Percival’s merciless reputation and the way he stares down at each man in interrogation with cold black eyes that fill them with incomprehensible dread.

It is also possible that Percival has become a bit meaner lately, but no one is brave enough to say so to his face.

“You’ve become a lot meaner lately,” Picquery says bluntly to Percival’s face. She knows she is the only person who can tell him this without unleashing his newly increased ire. All Percival can do is scowl at her and wait for her to get to real reason she called him to her office.

“I’m not complaining,” she continues. “In the last three weeks we’ve dismantled almost the entire following of a gang that you’ve been after for months. I’m impressed, truly.”

Behind Picquery, the portrait of President Jackson is nodding somberly along with the conversation as if he has any real concept of what they are discussing. As a painting, Jackson misses out on a lot of contextual information and relies solely on what he witnesses in the office and on what Picquery choses to tell him. Percival does his best not to glare at the late President Jackson and sully the man’s good opinion of him, which has always been a point of pride for the Director.

“However,” says Picquery and now her expression is stern in a way that means she is very serious, “yesterday you made one of the Juniors cry and I know that crosses a personal line with you.”

_Damn_. The Junior was Simmons, too, if Percival remembers correctly. She had quoted a date incorrectly in a report and Percival had lectured her on the importance of fact checking, because mistakes like these can lead to the wrong man being punished. He supposes he had gone on a bit longer than necessary and he can’t hear his own voice, so there’s no telling how harsh he might’ve sounded with her.

“Yes,” Percival agrees. He tries to make a point of always encouraging and teaching the Juniors, as they are still learning and adjusting. Once they’ve graduated to full Auror, he stops holding back because now they ought to know better. He should probably apologize to Simmons. “I’ll speak to her.”

Seraphina arches an elegant eyebrow at him and Percival rolls his eyes.

“ _Gently_ ,” he insists. “I’ll speak to her _gently_. Honestly, woman.”

“Don’t _woman_ me, Mr. Graves,” chides Seraphina.

“My deepest apologies, Madam President,” Percival shoots back.

“Save that for Simmons.” Picquery waves her hand dismissively at Percival. “That’ll be all, Director. Go back to scaring your criminals.”

“Right away, Madam President,” he says smartly and then turns sharply to ensure he has the last word. He checks his watch and decides to duck out a few minutes early for lunch. As Percival passes by the bullpen, he sees Simmons hunched at her desk with Quailfoot perched on the desktop beside her, heads bent close.

“Simmons,” Percival barks and watches the two women jump apart, Quailfoot with her hand to her heart. “With me.”

Simmons’s eyes widen and Quailfoot gives her arm a fortifying squeeze. Percival tries not to frown too deeply lest he give Simmons the wrong impression, he doesn’t want the poor girl to think she is about to be fired for making one easily caught error in a report. He maintains his brisk pace, watching from the corner of his eye as Simmons hurries out of the bullpen. He loses sight of her as she rounds the filing cabinets, but Daphne nudges his neck on the right side to assure him that the Junior is following at his heels.

Daphne bumps him again to let him know Simmons is speaking to him and glances at her over his shoulder. He catches _sorry_ and _do better_ and says, “You’re not in trouble in trouble, Simmons. You don’t need to apologize for anything.”

As they enter the atrium and approach the front doors of the building, Daphne shrinks and curls herself under the collar of his shirt, out of sight, but still able to perform her duty. Percival pulls a door open and holds it for Simmons and then resumes the lead out on the sidewalk. He takes her to Kowalski’s because it’s just far enough from the Woolworth building to make it unlikely to cross paths with any who might recognize them. The bakery has reached a peculiar balance where it is equally popular amongst no-majs and wizardkind and the two somehow blend seamlessly within the walls of the shop. Natural caution has witches and wizards tucking their wands away and temporarily freezing their animated accessories when out and about, so there is nothing to tip off the non-wizards. To all, the bakery is simply a bakery of unique and delicious treats.

Jacob is at the counter when Percival enters, holding the door once again for Simmons. The lunch rush seems to have just begun, because the line is thick and impatient, but Percival sees Jacob direct an assistant to set aside a niffler scone and an occamy Danish.

“Have you been here before?” he asks Simmons.

She is looking around in bewilderment, but some of her confusion lessens when she sees the display of erumpent loaves. She shakes her head, “No, but Verity has brought me bread from here.”

Percival nods. He watches Jacob step away from the register, leaving it to another assistant, and then the no-maj waves Percival up to the front. Percival ignores the scathing expressions from those still buried near the back of the line and guides Simmons to the front with a light touch at her elbow.

Jacob tends to get flighty and anxious when Percival is around—understandable considering their first meeting and the fact that Percival has come by maybe twice more since and always with Newt—but he’s a genial man and easily likeable. In the months that his bakery has been open, the place has evolved to include a little sitting area and a few simple teas and coffees have been added to the menu. Business is flourishing; Percival learns all about it from Queenie, beaming with pride and adoration for her tentative boyfriend.

“Afternoon, Mr. Graves,” says Jacob, setting down a pair of plates with the pastries sitting on little paper napkins.

“Mr. Kowalski,” Percival says in return with a slight nod. He reaches into his pocket for his wallet, grateful that he always keep a bit of no-maj currency on hand in case of emergencies, but Jacob waves his hands.

“No, no, on the house, Mr. Graves,” Jacob insists.

Percival smiles slightly. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

“Yeah, sure, you know me,” says Jacob, rocking awkwardly on his feet. “How’s Newt?”

Percival’s smile slides away. “Better than he was,” he murmurs. “They think they have finally removed the last of it.”

The phrasing is vaguely cryptic, entirely bland so as to reveal nothing, but Percival knows that Queenie has been keeping Jacob up to date on Newt’s condition. He’s a smart man, he’ll understand what Percival is saying. Indeed, Jacob nods and his mouth pulls into a wry upturn.

“That’s. That’s good.” Jacob rubs the back of his neck. “Have a good day now, Mr. Graves.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kowalski.” Percival takes the plates and leads Simmons to the little tables by the window at the front of the shop. He can feel Simmons staring at him in amazement; irrefutable proof that your stoic, ill-tempered boss has an actual life outside of work always takes time to process. He sets down the plates and then seats himself, keeping the occamy Danish for himself and nudging the niffler scone towards the chair opposite him. Simmons sits hurriedly and then, catching sight of the scone, grins at the pastry with delight.

“It’s a niffler,” she says.

“Well spotted,” Percival says idly, cutting the Danish in half and then wiping the residual blackberry jam along the flaky side of the pastry snake. He takes a bite and sighs contentedly. Simmons glances around as if expecting this to some kind of prank or set up and then hesitantly breaks off a piece of scone and pops it into her mouth. Her eyes flutter blissfully.

After a few minutes of eating in silence, Percival wipes the corners of his mouth with his napkin and says, “I want to apologize for the way I spoke to you yesterday. It was a minor error in paperwork and I was unnecessarily harsh.”

“Oh,” shapes Simmons, eyebrows near her hairline in surprise. “That’s… You weren’t _that_ bad…”

“I was an ass, Simmons,” Percival says frankly and the Junior’s eyes go wide, confirming that his Aurors have been saying as much amongst themselves these days. “I am aware of my reputation and what is said of me in the office, but I generally try to reserve the worst of my temper for the more experienced Aurors. They are at a point where I can yell at them for screwing up when they ought to know better and I won’t feel bad when I upset them. You, on the other hand, are still green, still learning the ropes of how MACUSA operates, and I should not have shouted at you like I did. I’m very sorry.”

Simmons bites her lip and nods earnestly. “Thank you, sir.” Percival watches her steel herself before saying, “Verity told me about when she got her hands messed up by that artefact at the black market raid. It was ages ago, but she still talks about it sometimes. About how you were real kind to her and made her wanna keep being an Auror. I, well, I guess I felt real let down when, yesterday, you were…an ass.”

Simmons immediately ducks her head, eyes nearly popping out of her head in disbelief at herself for _calling her boss an ass to his face_. Percival chuckles and that makes Simmons’s eyes bulge somehow further.

“Relax, you’re not in trouble. I’ll let it slide just this once because of unusual circumstances,” Percival assures her. “I hope that I’ve made up for contradicting what Quailfoot lead you to expect.”

Simmons manages a small smile. “You have, sir. Thank you. And I know things have been crazy at work, things have been crazy for a while, but lately it’s all been even crazier.” She shrugs and just like that all is forgiven. They finish their pastries in comfortable quiet. And then, just before they rise to leave, Simmons speaks up with a tentative question, “Newt… Is that the English guy Tina’s friends with? The one who got attacked last month?”

Percival swallows thickly. “He is.”

Simmons twists her fingers nervously together. “Are you and he…?” She trails off, too afraid to ask and risk offending her boss, but Percival arches a brow that dares her to go on. “It’s just that I see him go into your office a lot with lunch and I’ve noticed him a few times in the atrium and realized he was waiting for you when I saw you two leave together a coupla times. So, I thought, maybe, you were…”

Percival takes mercy and simply says, “Yes.” And then, before Simmons can even think about trying to ask more, says, “Come along now. Back to work.”

When they arrive back at the Woolworth building and have reached Investigations, Simmons immediately trots off to Quailfoot’s desk, likely to tell her everything that has just transpired. Percival doesn’t mind having a softer reputation amongst Juniors, because he knows it will change quite thoroughly once they are promoted.

In his office, Percival sifts through interrogation transcripts and checks that he has all known safehouses marked on his map of the city. He idly confirms that his information regarding Collins’s following is up to date and then heads down to interrogation to check Lynch’s progress with their latest arrestee. Collins’s lackies like to snarl and throw insults at Percival whenever they see him. Percival and his colleagues find great amusement in the way their faces scrunch up with offense when he fails to respond the way they want him to.

Presently, Lynch is interrogating a gaunt, rather frightening-looking woman who sits with rigid posture and her hands clasped atop the table. She doesn’t appear to be responding to Lynch or even looking at him and Lynch is clearly becoming increasingly frustrated.

“Director Graves, sir,” says Auror Ivan McCutcheon, who transferred from Boston with Strenburg, relief evident on his face. “We’ve been at this for hours, but _Mrs. Grundy*_ over here won’t budge.”

Percival narrows his eyes at the woman thoughtfully. She has a wide, vaguely frog-like mouth and an upturned nose that give her a constant expression of displeasure. Though, considering the cause she has chosen to commit herself to, constant displeasure might just be the norm for her. Percival checks his coat pocket for his notepad and palms it, he’ll need to read what she says to him—if she chooses to say anything at all. Then he raps sharply on the door before letting himself in.

Lynch glances over and acknowledged him with a curt nod. The woman, however, stares at him and something uncomfortably like glee comes over her narrow face. Percival glances at her dismissively as he enters, focusing instead on standing by Lynch’s shoulder and taking up the sparse file they have on her.

“Ethel Umbridge,” he reads. “British native. Hogwarts graduate. Slytherin, I presume?”

He spares her another passing look, long enough to catch her mouth twisting smugly and making an _aw_ shape. He assumes she has just corrected him with her actual House of Ravenclaw and replies with a disinterested, “Hm,” as he lowers his eyes back to the paper. He sits and taps the corner of his notepad on the table; Daphne grows half a foot under the collar of his coat, subtle, but enough movement to draw attention to herself. Ethel Umbridge wrinkles her nose distastefully at the occamy.

“So, tell me,” he says, leaning casually in his chair and resting his notepad on his leg, angled so he can see it where it is hidden under the table. Lynch could probably see it, too, if he cared to look over, but Percival is confident he’ll be able to hide in plain sight, so to speak. “Why does a British witch care about an American wizard with a grudge?”

Umbridge’s wide mouth and accent make her difficult for Percival to understand, but he’s become adept at reading written words very quickly.

_You’re the cake-eater* he’s always whinging about,_ she says. _The infamous Director Graves who spent six months having tea with Grindelwald._

Percival raises an unimpressed eyebrow at the woman and pointedly says nothing. Umbridge is undeterred by his lack of response, however, and goes on.

_Have you heard the rumors that Grindelwald has a, shall we say, similar taste as you, Director? When it comes to bedmates, I mean._

Collins’s followers seem to share a bewildering fascination with Percival’s sexuality. So far, there hasn’t been a single interrogation in which it isn’t brought up and they always, _always_ , use the same no-maj slur. It’s getting very tiresome and Percival isn’t sure what they hoped to accomplish by repeatedly bringing it up. Alienation from his colleagues, perhaps? If none of his Aurors knew before, they certainly do now, but none of them have so much as blinked in response to this revelation. Why, it’s almost like none of them care; almost as though homosexuality or bisexuality is something the wizarding world doesn’t give a damn about.

Beside him, Lynch grumbles under his breath and the words appear on Percival’s notepad as, _Yeah, so you’ve fucking said, ya bluenose.*_

Clearly, the rest of the department is getting sick of it, too. Percival sighs and straightens up in his chair.

“Very well, I have better things to do with my time.” He stands and smooths down the front of his jacket, keeping his notepad in hand. “Ms. Umbridge, you’re being deported. A Ministry official will be arriving this evening to collect you.”

As he steps to the door, he feels the notepad warm slightly in his hand, indicating that something further has been said. He glances at it while reaching for the knob— _It’s a shame about Scamander_ —and his blood runs cold. Percival gives no outward reaction, just continues out of the room and shuts the door firmly behind himself. He nods curtly at McCutcheon and then strides briskly to the lift. He doesn’t bother going all the way back up to his office for his coat, he instead goes directly to the ground floor and makes immediately for the sanctioned Apparition point. He doesn’t use it often, doesn’t normally mind walking outside for a stretch before Apparating home from a discrete alleyway, but these are extenuating circumstances.

_It’s a shame about Scamander._

He Apparates directly to St. Agatha’s and marches to Newt’s room with such a stormy expression that Healers and visitors alike dodge out of his way. As he approaches Newt’s door, his heart begins to hammer in his chest as sudden anxiety burbles up and threatens to consume him. He doesn’t know what he’ll find on the other side of this door. It could be the same sight that has greeted him for three weeks or it could be something infinitely worse.

The rational part of his mind reminds him that he would have been contacted immediately if something good or bad happened. It also reminds him that Newt has been in stable condition for a while now and has, in fact, shown signs of improvement over the last four days.

Theseus Scamander, whom Queenie has been in somewhat regular contact with while she works on revising Rappaport’s Law, wrote Percival just the other day asking if it is possible to transfer Newt to St. Mungo’s. Perhaps the elder Scamander got tired of waiting for Percival’s reply (which he hasn’t written, because the thought of Newt being so far out of reach sometimes makes his hands shake too much to hold a pen) and used his right as a blood relative to authorize and enact the transfer. Perhaps the bed on the other side of this door will be empty.

Percival has to pause to take a few steadying breaths before he can make himself twist the knob and open the door. Heart in his throat, he steps inside and looks immediately to the bed and sees—

Everything exactly as it was the last time he visited. Newt is deep asleep, blankets drawn to his hips and fizzling bandages wrapped around his torso. He has regained much of his color over the past weeks, his lips are less chalky pale and his veins don’t stand out so starkly anymore. With the help of nourishing potions, Newt has lost little weight and, in fact, is not nearly as slim as Percival has seen him in the past when he is fresh from a stint in a jungle or a desert.

Relief washes over Percival and drags him down heavily into the chair at Newt’s beside. He lets out a long breath and presses his hand to his face before dragging his fingers through his hair. Daphne nuzzles the underside of his chin and blows a soft huff of breath against his cheek; he fluffs her plumage affectionately.

“I feel like I’m losing my mind, darling,” he admits to Newt’s sleeping form. The Healers have supposedly decreased the intensity of the spell keeping him comatose and Newt’s breathing is no longer frighteningly shallow, but Percival is still not allowed to touch. “I just let one of Collins’s followers get to me and she barely even tried. She didn’t even threaten you. All she did was say your name and I dropped everything to come check on you.”

Newt’s fingers twitch on the bedspread. Little movements like this have been happening sporadically for the last five days, abrupt and brief flexing in his fingers and toes and subtle changes in his expression. The magizoologist at last has the appearance of simply being asleep and dreaming.

Percival busies his hands in Daphne’s feathers in an attempt to stop feeling the way they ache for Newt’s.

“Perhaps I should let Theseus transfer you to St. Mungo’s,” he muses dejectedly. “At least that way you’ll be far away from Collins and I won’t be constantly afraid one of his lackies will try to hurt you again.”

Newt’s eyebrows scrunch together, his expression briefly distressed, but then smooths out seconds later. Percival tries not to read anything into this seeming reaction, but it’s like being told not to think about kneazles. Percival sighs and changes the subject.

“Pickett is doing well, all things considered,” he tells Newt. “He stays with Tina primarily. I believe he got tired of sharing my attention with Daphne. Tina is burying herself in work, not that I’m one to talk, but having a companion in your pocket does help quite a bit. So, at least there is that.

“Queenie is upstate with Credence, getting him settled with my parents, and yes, darling, I made sure to send along an extensive copy of your notes on occamys. Darwin will be as well looked-after as Credence, I promise.”

Percival gazes at Newt’s face as if to memorize every detail of it, as if he is seeing the redhead for the first time or for the last time. He takes account of every freckle, most now faded by lack of sunlight, and traces the precise shape of his lips, that shallow cupid’s bow that he has always found so alluring.

“The Healer assigned to you says they’ve managed to counter the last of the hex Milton used on you,” Percival says to the slope of Newt’s nose and the elegant arch of his cheekbones. “Next week, if the wound responds to the suturing spell and stays closed, they’ll lift the coma completely and let you wake on your own time.” Percival’s eyes track the long lines of Newt’s neck, the dip at the base of his throat, and sweep of his collarbones. “I would very much like to be here when you do finally wake,” he says, “but I don’t dare to hope. Either you’ll be in England in your brother’s care or I’ll be out chasing another one of Collins’s damned followers.

“It’s September,” Percival says abruptly. “We’re about halfway through September now. October is a fine enough month, from a work standpoint, until you get to All Hallows Eve. Your _muggles_ go a bit insane on All Hallows Eve and that makes quite a few of our lot get _ideas_ about things. It’s always hell and it’s always a wonder the Statute of Secrecy stays intact. But, Newt, darling, please don’t make me suffer November alone. I’ve been holding myself together, but I do think that would break me.”

Last year, Percival spent the majority of November alone in his own bedroom with a ruined leg and ruined ears, slowly starving to death as Grindelwald’s magic left his system bit by bit. A cruel captor he may have been, but Grindelwald knew exactly how to keep a man alive while stripping him of life and identity. Percival spent six months wishing he would die, but November is the month he truly believed he would and realized how desperately he did not want to.

Newt sighs in his sleep and his face turns slightly towards Percival. In the many months he has known Newt and more so in the months they have been dating, Percival has become accustomed to his burgeoning habit of indulging Newt’s tendency to break the rules. He has even bent a few himself for the sake of Newt’s case and creatures and he does not feel guilty in the least for doing so—which is rather remarkable. So, Percival feels only his love and longing for Newt when he stands and gently cups a hand to Newt’s soft cheek. He feels only the aching void inside his chest when he bends over the cot and brushes his lips to Newt’s forehead and holds them there for a single, eternal moment.

“I love you, darling,” he whispers to Newt’s cool skin. “Please, wake up soon.”

Then he straightens up and leaves without looking back. If he looks back, he might stay in that chair and watch Newt’s face forever.

 

\- - -

 

Percival writes to Theseus that afternoon and the next morning, he stops by St. Agatha’s to say goodbye to his still-sleeping lover as a pair of Healers from St. Mungo’s prepare to transport him to London. He comes into work half an hour late with an expression like gathering storm clouds and a white-knuckled grip on his cane. His Aurors take one look at him and suddenly find something elsewhere that is very interesting; only Tina meets his gaze and holds it.

Tina bravely follows Percival to his office and plants herself in the chair across from him. She even has the gall to look at him with clear _disappointment_. From the breast pocket of her coat, Pickett peers at Percival with accusing beady eyes.

Percival waves his hand at his silver coffee set and it begins to brew enough to fill two cups. The smell of fresh grounds permeates the room and both Aurors take a moment to inhale the heavenly aroma; the moment passes unfortunately quickly. Tina sits firmly upright and speaks with clear enunciation and precise signs.

“You know Newt is going to be furious when he wakes up,” she tells him. “He would not want to be sent away.”

“Goldstein, I didn’t want him ‘sent away,’ as you so gently put it, either,” he replies curtly, “but for the sake of my own sanity, I had to. Collins’s toadies know precisely how much he means to me and I cannot risk them trying to hurt him again. I’d rather have Newt alive and furious with the decision I made than have Newt killed because I failed to make a decision at all.”

Tina purses her lips for a moment and then sighs heavily, her shoulders losing tension and her posture loosening. She says, after a few seconds, “I’ll keep looking after Pickett and the rest of his creatures. Queenie will be back tomorrow, so I’ll have her helping me again soon.”

Percival nods. “Thank you, Tina.”

“In any other situation, I would say you owe me.”

He raises an imperious eyebrow at his underling. “Really.”

Tina does not relent. “Yes, really. As one friend to another, you would owe me.”

The word _friend_ hits Percival like a punch to the gut. He didn’t realize how much he needed that reminder—the reminder that he has friends, has people who have his back, people who will support him and help him—until Tina gives it to him. Despite himself and his agitation, Percival can’t help the small smile that creeps onto his face.

“Get back to work, Goldstein,” he orders and, judging by Tina’s brief expression of amusement before settling back into her work-face, his tone is not nearly as sharp as it would be if he directed those words at anyone else.

Tina rises, snaps off a crisp salute, and then turns sharply on her heel and marches out of the office. Percival rolls his eyes; she is possibly the only Auror who can get away with being insubordinate by being _too_ subordinate. How is it she is his favorite?

Daphne wriggles into his lap and then grows to coil over his legs like a warm, heavy blanket and then stretches up to touch the tip of her beak to his nose.

Ah. That’s how.

 

\- - -

 

The week drags by in an endless cycle of search and interrogation. Every new lead dropped by the lackies in holding was thoroughly investigated and found to be false, bringing everyone back to where they started. It was exhausting and frustrating and Percival is certain his hair is getting grayer from the stress.

On Thursday, a greasy sycophant called Thompson spills a new hideout location in the depths of Hell’s Kitchen and this is the lead that finally comes to fruition. Two more names are crossed off the list of known followers and now only two remain: Frank Wallace and Leland Collins himself.

On Friday, Percival receives an owl from Theseus dated two days ago informing him that Newt’s condition has greatly improved, he is nearly ready to be taken off the sleeping enchantments. This good news carries Percival through the morning and into lunchtime and stays with him while he stands by Tina’s desk and discusses tactics. Tina has assumed a sort of second-in-command role for the Collins Case and has risen to the task very impressively. Once all this is sorted and done, Percival is going to give her a well-deserved, hard-earned pay raise.

“I’ll ask Queenie to stop by on Monday,” says Tina, tapping her pen absently against the notepad open on her desk, “with your permission, of course. If we have her behind the glass while one of us talks to Thompson, maybe she can pick out whatever he isn’t telling us.”

“You’re sure he isn’t telling us something?” asks Sadie Strenburg. She is ever so determined to be Percival’s friend and he would never dare tell her that he is already a touch fond of her; not enough to make him biased or call her a friend, but enough to grant her his occasional favor. She is also, apparently, determined to be the most helpful person working this case and Percival can’t fault her nosiness when she actually is very helpful.

“These guys are always holding something back,” says Tina, distractedly staring at her notes.

“Ask Queenie if she would be willing…” Percival starts, but trails off when Daphne’s head suddenly jerks up from where it was resting on his shoulder.

Quite suddenly, she periscopes off his shoulder and when Percival cranes his neck to look up at her, he sees the crest of feathers about her head are raised defensively. Her beak is open in wide gape as she shrieks with such force that Percival can feel the vibrations of her voice against the side of his head where her body is pressed against his temple and ear. He glances briefly at Tina—who is staring, startled, past Percival—as he turns and—

Even before he finishes turning, Percival feels the heavy grit on his skin and tastes the bitterness on his tongue and fury flares within him. He cannot believe the sheer audacity of—

“Newt?”

Newt is standing several feet away, but it is undeniably him. Dressed in his blue coat and brown boots with his old Hufflepuff scarf hung unevenly from his shoulders. His red curls are wild and gorgeously windswept and his cheeks are chapped from exposure to the wind and it is him. It _looks_ like him. But—

Percival knows the taste and feel of Newt’s magic. Newt’s magic is raw and unbridled like that of his beasts, it is brown earth and red clay and the sweetness of vegetation. It is warm and gentle and absolutely unbreakable.

Percival draws his wand.

This is not Newt.

The imposter takes a shocked step back, mouth dropping open and eyes widening with hurt. Daphne’s shrieks still buzz against the side of Percival’s head and he can feel Tina grasping at his arm, begging for his attention. But this is not Newt.

The fake Newt creeps cautiously forward in a fair mimicry of Newt’s rightward-favoring mannerism, but there’s a tenseness about his shoulders that give him away. If he weren’t so attuned to the magical signatures of individuals, Percival could almost believe this imitation, could almost explain away the tenseness as a result of recent trauma. But he is and he knows better. Percival points his wand steadily at the imposter’s head.

“Percy,” shapes the man wearing his lover’s face. Percival is proud of the way he does not flinch at that hated nickname and he is proud of how his extended arm and raised wand do not waver. He is also proud of Tina, who stops tugging on his coat and instead refocuses on calming Daphne.

“Percy, it’s me,” the imposter says again. “I’ve come straight from St. Agatha’s. I thought you’d be pleased to see me.”

It’s like the man isn’t even trying, hasn’t even bothered to do proper research and reconnaissance.

Daphne shrinks around Percival’s shoulders, no longer vibrating with screams and her beak finally closed, but her feathers are still fluffed with agitation. Her wings keep tickling the back of Percival’s neck and her talons have sunk through the layers of his clothing and are prickling his skin. She is upset by this creature who looks like Newt, but smells and feels all wrong and it is making her forget her training. Percival keeps his eyes locked on the fake Newt even as he uses his free hand to gesture for Tina to remove Daphne from his shoulders.

“Stealth and disguise were never your strong suit, Collins,” Percival says darkly. “You never had the patience to study a person long enough to fully embody them.”

Merlin help him, the bastard was still trying to maintain the act, pulling Newt’s face into something too wide-eyed and innocent, a caricature of confusion. “What do you mean? Sweetheart…”

“You must stop,” Percival interrupts, “you’re embarrassing yourself.”

The ruse drops from Collins-as-Newt’s shoulders and his lover’s face is pulled into a wicked smirk. “Yeah, okay, you know your onions. That’s on me for thinking I could pull off your little Brit bearcat*, but I’m understaffed right now and I had his blood on hand. It seemed like berries to me.”

The confidence rolling off Collins is incongruent with the situation he has placed himself in. He is surrounded by Aurors in a building you cannot Apparate in or out of and he has no backup. Something isn’t right.

“Does it still seem like berries?” Percival retorts, mind racing to deduce Collins’s plans, to unravel his thinking, because he can’t just be this stupid. “You’re surrounded. You have no way to escape and nowhere to go.”

“Details,” Collins shrugs. He has straightened out of Newt’s uneven posture and has stuffed his hands carelessly into the pockets of Newt’s jacket. He glances at the clock on the wall as he swaggers closer and seems to grow even more smug the nearer he comes to Percival.

“You ain’t gonna hex me,” he tells Percival with maddening sureness. “I’ve got your sheik’s face on and under all that gruff, tough bullshit you’re just a big pushover. Ain’tcha, Gravesy.”

Percival curls his lip. “What makes you so sure?”

Collins-as-Newt shrugs nonchalantly. “’Cause I’m wearing your boyfriend’s face and you wouldn’t do nothing to hurt him.”

“Stop right there,” Percival grinds out. “You are under arrest for conspiracy, attempted murder on multiple counts, illegal use of the Undetectable Extension Charm in a no-maj populated area—”

Collins rolls Newt’s eye exasperatedly.

“…the illegal importation of a dangerous creature, improper use of magic on a no-maj vehicle—"

“Yeah, yeah,” Collins interrupts impatiently, creeping a few more steps forward.

“Strenburg,” Percival barks and Sadie darts out from around him, wand drawn with a hand binding spell on her lips. Collins flicks his wand in her direction and Strenburg’s mouth drops open in a shout as she is sent flying sideways. From the corner of his eye, Percival sees her impact the broad side of a filing cabinet and slump the ground, unmoving. He presses forward, twirls his wand in tight, precise circles and has Collins’s feet snapping together.

Collins is unbalanced, but he maintains the presence of mind to throw his weight forward directly at Percival, forcing the Director to either step back or catch him. Instinctually, Percival reaches forward and catches the other man. He sees a brief glimpse of a sharp smile that does not suit Newt’s gentle face and feels his stomach drop in dreadful premonition, but it’s too late.

Collins still has a hand in his pocket and he pulls it out in that instant to reveal a battered cigarette case. A Portkey.

“Shi—” Percival swears as the hook of Portkey travel sinks through his navel. He tries to rear back, to break contact between him and Collins, tries to rationalize that he is not physically touching the object and therefore safe, but the world begins to blur around him. A horrible pain lances down his right leg and he distantly hears the clatter of wood on marble and thinks it must be his wand, as it is no longer in his hand and then…

Harsh clarity. Focus slams into him moments before he is slammed to the floor. Groaning, Percival tries to lever himself up onto his knees and immediately crumples to his side as his right leg flares with fiery pain. His eyes water, his head throbs, and he is extremely disoriented.

Scuffed boots step into his line of sight. Newt’s scuffed boots. An automatic surge of relief rushes through him and then sours into fury when he remembers. Percival forces himself to sit up and throws out his hand, sending Collins-as-Newt careening through the air and crashing into a wall some ten feet away.

The back of his neck prickles. Percival lurches awkwardly to his feet and staggers as he turns to face Frank Wallace. Wallace is bulky and his eyes are small, squinty, and his magic smells like old leather and feels like sand running through fingers. His mouth moves, but he hitches up the corner of his mouth when he speaks and it makes him unreadable—particularly in this high stress situation.

Magic is centralizing around Wallace’s wand, gathering and forming into a body-binding spell, and Percival is quick to throw his own magic out to disperse the spell before it fully forms. Wallace blinks stupidly when his spell stops abruptly and looks at his wand as if it is responsible. Percival takes advantage of the distraction to swipe his arm hard to the side and magically launch Wallace in the same direction. Without his wand, Percival’s magic is less precise and the amount of adrenalin running through his system makes it easiest to perform simple, inelegant spells. Pushing and throwing and forcibly dispersing another’s magic are things Percival has been able to do wandlessly for decades.

Grit and bitterness rises behind him and Percival whips around to counter whatever Collins is sending his way—but the movement jars his leg. Percival shouts hoarsely as his right knee gives out and halfway through falling, Collins’s spell slams into his chest.

Paralyzed, Percival gasps for air as he stares at a high ceiling and a grid of rafters netted with cobwebs. He could be anywhere, he realizes, and he is without his wand or his occamy, in the company of his worst enemy. Newt is recuperating in England and Percival has no way of contacting his Aurors or his friends and Portkey travel is notoriously difficult to track. There is no saying how long it will take them to find him or even _if_ they manage to find him.

Newt’s face hovers above his, grinning viciously in a way so unlike his magizoologist that it makes Percival’s stomach churn. He hunkers down on the balls of his feet, arms resting on his knees, and stares down at Percival while he pointedly twirls his wand in his hand. Collins speaks with Newt’s voice but his own American accent, “Oh, Percy, we are going to have so much fun together.”

 

 

 

 

*Mrs. Grundy: an uptight or straight-laced individual

*bluenose: a prude or individual deemed to be a killjoy

*cake-eater: late 1920s slang for homosexual

*bearcat: a lively, spirited woman with a fiery streak


	2. Relapse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silvery moonlight drifts lazily into the room and all the shadows in the wide space transfigure themselves into monsters, boggarts finding the forms he fears the most. Grindelwald lurks just past his left shoulder, hovering at the brink of obscurity in his peripheral vision. Inarticulate beasts populate the rafters, moonlit eyes blinking down at him, and if he lingers on them for too long, he can trick himself into thinking he feels the drip of hot saliva on his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the blood/injury/torture tags come in... If you don't want it read it, I'm about to list the sentences to look for to avoid reading the worst of it...
> 
> \- The sentence "The reprieve does not last long" precedes a fairly graphic description of a serious injury.
> 
> \- "I honestly can say I have not" is followed by an Unforgiveable
> 
> \- Basically all of day four is psychological and physical torment... sorry, Perry.
> 
> And that's it, really. It's not a particularly long chapter, because I'm not really into gratuitous torture and violence so it's all kept pretty concise. Um.... I'm having a bit of a disagreement with chapter 3, not the content of it, just the way it's written and portrayed so it might come a bit later than this one did (a week + 2 days after chapter 1) But hopefully it'll be worth it?

Percival spends the first day alone.

The room he is wide and long and wooden, layered with dust and cobwebs and unrecognizable debris. He can feel the oppressive weight of warding enchantments layered thickly on every wall and even the ceiling and floor. There are no windows, but there are gaps between the boards and shingles that make up the roof large enough to let thin streams of sunlight through. Percival watches the slow creep of swirling, illuminated dust motes across the floor and feels his sanity slipping.

He is shackled to a simple wooden chair with no arms, his arms pulled down at his sides and his wrists cuffed and chained to the chair’s back legs, with are anchored to the floor. His ankles are similarly immobilized and attached to the chair’s front legs. The shackles themselves feel prickly and hot against his skin, which tells him that they will interfere with his attempts at magic—not fully suppressing it, but magic his wandless casting chaotic and dangerous—and that magic will be required to remove them.

Percival tries using his magic anyway, hoping to break apart the wood planks the chains are embedded in or the splitting the legs of the chairs to give himself more mobility. His blasting spells go haywire as they leave his palms and all he accomplishes is kicking up a huge amount of dust and choking himself for a few minutes.

His eyes water as he coughs and he twists his neck to wipe his cheeks on his shoulders. It takes a few minutes for the dust to clear and then a few minutes more for Percival to stop coughing. When his breathing finally settles, Percival lets his head fall against the wooden ridge of the chair’s back and closes his eyes, taking a moment to relish in the feeling of breathing unhindered.

The reprieve does not last long. Soon the throb of his injured leg slips back into his awareness and then it’s all he can think about, the relentless center of his attention. Gritting his teeth, Percival lifts his head and takes stock of the damage. His leg is definitely splinched as a result of being pulled into Portkey travel without physically touching the Portkey itself, a thing he previously did not know was possible. This is by far the worst splinching he has ever experienced and he has had quite a few during his school years when he was just learning how to Apparate and during the war.

The leg of his trousers is in ribbons, stained dark and crusted to his ruined flesh with dried blood. A deep tear runs a spiral from his hip to his heel, leaving gruesome gorges that spread into bloody canyons in his thigh and in his calf. His knee is once again obliterated, shiny white bone peeking through the gore where his regrown kneecap used to be.

Nausea rolls in his stomach and Percival has to look away.

A little after what he estimates to be midday, he has to close his eyes because one of the motes of sunlight is streaming directly on his face. After a bit, he is able to duck his head and avoid being blinded, but the position is uncomfortable to maintain and he resumes leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

His stomach begins to growl when the light mote is well behind him. He has not eaten since lunchtime yesterday and it must be approaching dinnertime now. Another brief survey of his right leg eliminates his appetite and it is easier to focus on the pain than on how hungry he is.

The sunlight reddens and dims and then disappears. Percival sits in total darkness and chill begins to set in. He shivers.

Silvery moonlight drifts lazily into the room and all the shadows in the wide space transfigure themselves into monsters, boggarts finding the forms he fears the most. Grindelwald lurks just past his left shoulder, hovering at the brink of obscurity in his peripheral vision. Inarticulate beasts populate the rafters, moonlit eyes blinking down at him, and if he lingers on them for too long, he can trick himself into thinking he feels the drip of hot saliva on his skin.

He drifts into restless sleep, still partially aware of where he is, but unable to escape the way everything twists and turns hazy and confused. Newt creeps along the perimeter, glancing at Percival with baleful eyes and his lower lip caught between his teeth, but he never comes any closer no matter how much Percival begs and pleads.

Then suddenly the room is barred with orange sunlight again and Percival struggles to remember when he fell truly asleep…

 

The second day is much like the first.

Percival tries not to think about how dry his mouth is and how empty his stomach is and how cold and numb he is beginning to feel. His splinched leg is not actively bleeding, but the dark stains under his foot and chair tell him this is a recent development. He needs a blood replenishing potion, then food and water, and a lot of dittany. He wonders if Collins intends to supply him with any of those things or if his master plan culminated in abandoning Percival in a lonely warehouse with no hope of being found. This seems like an anticlimactic conclusion considering his previous plots and schemes—the lethifold in the hallway, the car collision, the stalking of Credence Barebone, and the attempted murder of Newt. Collins is the type to gloat, he wants everyone to know clever he is, to see what he is capable of; he won’t be able to stay away.

When the motes of light reach the toes of Percival’s shoes, he feels the warding magic ripple around him, weakening for a split moment and then snapping back to full strength. He takes a quiet breath and steels himself. Collins has arrived.

Percival feels a vague sense of relief when Collins enters his line of vision and he sees the other man is not in the middle of speaking. Of course, he could have said something upon entering, but at least now Percival can play it off as not wanting to entertain his captor. So, he squares his jaw and stares at Collins with a stony expression.

The ex-Auror conjures up an ostentatious wingback armchair and Percival barely suppresses an eyeroll. Collins lounges in the chair, clearly trying to play on how uncomfortable Percival’s wooden chair and shackles are and succeeding only in looking like more an ass than usual. He takes a long moment to stare at Percival, expression unbearably smug, as he makes a performance of settling into his cushy chair _just right_.

Percival stares flatly and waits.

“I been thinking about this for a long time,” Collins says at last. Whether it’s because he is self-important and bragging or because he still has some lingering habits from being under Percival’s authority at MACUSA is hard to say, but Collins keeps his face open to his old superior.

He goes on, “I been thinking about everything you said to me the day you fired me, about shattering your bones and destroying your senses and letting you starve. I like the sound of that, I really do, but I think I can do ya one better. Grindelwald wore your face while he tortured you, but I’m gonna wear your lover’s.”

Percival’s composure nearly breaks, but he keeps it together, just barely.

“I’ve got plenty of Polyjuice stashed away and your little bearcat bled so prettily all over that alley—”

“It’s a wonder you made it into the Auror program,” Percival snaps. He can’t stop himself, the mention of Newt and the repeated use of slang is too irksome for him to ignore. “Did you somehow skip the physical and mental health assessment?”

Scowling, Collins lashes out with a foot and kicks Percival’s right shin. Percival is unable to bite down the howl of pain as fresh blood burbles up to the surface and breaks through the delicate scabbing just starting to form over the splinching. Collins rises from his chair and lurches forward to plant his hands hard on Percival’s thighs, squeezing just above his knees and exerting painful pressure with the entirety of his body weight. Percival can smell the stink of cigarettes on his breath and grits his teeth, trying to rally himself enough to watch the ex-Auror’s chapped lips to read the threat pouring from them.

“…at my mercy, Graves,” Collins is saying. “So you better think real hard before you talk back to me.”

Percival’s eyes are watering. The weight on his right knee is becoming unbearable. He can feel hot blood sluicing down over his ruined skin. But he cannot give Collins the satisfaction of showing any further weakness, of showing any more pain.

“That’s rich advice, coming from you,” he forces out, hoping his voice is not wavering noticeably.

Collins reels back and then socks Percival right in the jaw. He vanishes while Percival is still blinking the stars from his vision, too dazed and aching to properly notice the ebb in the warding.

The rest of day two passes in painful silence, jaw throbbing in time with his leg and tear tracks cooling on his cheeks.

 

On day three, Percival wakes from a restless doze to Collins’s leering face hovering close to his. He snaps into full awareness and jolts in his chair, trying to put space between them but unable to move properly. He unconsciously flexes the muscles in his legs and a fresh agony sweeps up his right side.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he gasps.

Collins smiles slow and vicious and settles himself back into his conjured wingback armchair. He looks Percival over appraisingly, elbow propped on the arm rest and chin resting in his hand. Percival wrestles himself under control, biting his lower lip and breathing heavily through his nose until the worst of the pain passes.

“Whatever it is you want from me,” he says through gritted teeth, “get on with it, because I’m getting bored.”

Collins snarls and leans forward, planting his elbows on his knees. “You have some fuckin’ nerve, Gravesy. I oughta carve that smug smile off your face.”

Percival highly doubts Collins has the guts or the stomach for such intimate gore, but he knows when to push and when to hold back. In this moment, Percival chooses to keep his mouth shut. He wants to get Collins talking and then keep him talking, wants to keep the man distracted and give his Aurors as long as possible to find him. He thinks, right now, all he needs to do to set Collins off is lift a single, disbelieving eyebrow.

“Seems to me that you don’t understand the severity of the situation,” Collins says and Percival senses the start of a long monologue. “See, you’re little stunt with Grindelwald ruined my entire fuckin’ life. ‘Cause of you, I lost more than just my job, I lost my _wife_ , I lost my _kids_ , I lost my _house_ —”

“I thought you liked having Grindelwald as a boss,” Percival interrupts blandly.

Incensed, Collins lurches to his feet and Percival flinches before he can stop himself. But Collins doesn’t strike him, physically or magically, instead he begins to pace and prowl wide circles around Percival’s chair. Percival only catches bits and pieces whenever Collins passes into readable angles. Even so, out of context, everything is jumbled nonsense that Percival is barely able to parse meaning from. Collins has clearly lost his mind, has been driven to madness by his imagined slights and his obsession with revenge.

He catches the shape of Credence’s name, the word _Obscurial_ several times over, and _Grindelwald_ more times that he cares to count. As best he can tell, Collins seems to have forgotten ever saying he wished Grindelwald was his boss again and has instead fixated on the idea that Percival and Grindelwald are in league. Naturally, since Grindelwald was interested in Credence and then when _Percival_ exhibited interest in Credence, Collins decided that the boy needed to be taken care of. After that, everything devolves into fanaticism and the more upset Collins becomes, the sloppier his enunciation.

Percival watches the motes of sunlight travel slowly across the floorboards and concentrates on keeping his breathing steady and even.

A hand claps down on his shoulder and Collins’s face is once again uncomfortably close.

“Are you listening to me?” he demands, eyes wild and cheeks blotchy. “Have you heard a single word I have said to you?”

“I can honestly say I have not,” Percival replies, entirely neutral in his delivery even though he feels a small glimmer of humor at a private personal joke.

Collins rears back and draws his wand, snarling, “ _Crucio_ ,” before he has even fully extended his arm. Unmitigated, encompassing agony floods Percival’s body, never concentrating in one place as it sweeps through him. The spell ends abruptly and Percival slumps awkwardly in his chair, gasping for breath. Percival tastes bitter blood and then sees it drip with his saliva onto his lap. He tries to swallow it down, not daring to try spitting it out because he can’t fathom that going well for him.

Without warning, Collins strikes again and Percival feels the sandpaper drag of his screams as they tear from his throat. This goes on for hours, until the dusty motes of sunlight are well behind Percival’s back and dusk is filtering through the ceiling boards. His body is still shaking with remembered pain by the time he realizes Collins has left.

 

On day four, Percival rises sluggishly back into consciousness and blinks confusedly at the mass of red curls hovering by his knee. He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again, trying to clear his vision, and eventually manages to bring the world into focus. He finds Newt crouched before him, working frantically at the manacle around his right ankle.

Percival’s mouth is full of the coppery taste of blood and his vision is blurry from exhaustion, lashes crusted with sleep sand, but Newt’s curls and the breadth of his shoulders are unmistakable. He swallows, throat clicking with dryness, and tries to lift a hand to touch Newt’s hair. The motion is stopped before it can even really begin, because his wrists are still shackled at his sides to the floor. He does, however, attract Newt’s attention and the magizoologist pauses his fiddling with the manacle to look up at him.

Newt’s cheeks are flushed with exertion, lips parted alluringly, and green eyes wide with… something Percival cannot place. Then Newt smiles at him, bright and relieved, and Percival smiles tiredly back.

“I’m so glad to see you, darling,” he breathes, fighting to keep his eyes open. His mind is fuzzy, he can’t stay focused on any one thing—a common side effect of extended exposure to the Cruciatus Curse.

Newt reaches up to touch Percival’s cheek with a soft hand and says, “You’ve no idea how relieved I am to have found you, Percy.”

Percival’s heart drops into his stomach and he jerks his face out of Collins’s hand. The imposter draws back, feigning hurt and confusion, then bites his lip—an infuriatingly accurate move—and goes back to fiddling with the manacle. He starts to speak, but all Percival sees are the slight movements of his jaw and cheeks, and further damns his own cover.

“Enough of this Collins,” Percival rasps. “You have no gift for undercover work. You can’t play head games with me, so you might as well just kill me and get it over with.”

No longer playing a part, Collins roughly removes the shackle from Percival’s right foot and pulls the injured leg straight. Percival shouts and grits his teeth to silence any further noise. Collins flicks his wand and summons his ostentatious armchair. He sits quickly for once and yanks Percival’s leg to rest the wounded heel on his knee, vanishing his shoe as he does.

“I don’t want to kill you, Percy,” says Collins-as-Newt, lips taking on a wicked curve. “I want you to suffer and then I want you to _beg_ for death.”

Percival rolls his eyes. “Excellent.”

Collins scowls with Newt’s face and digs the tip of his wand into the tender sole of Percival’s foot. He doesn’t even use a slicing spell or anything similar, Percival can tell by the lack of magical grit in the air, merely applies blunt pressure to the existing injury. The results are astronomical. Percival’s hands spasm and shoot useless bolts of unfiltered magic at the floor, magic that diffuses through the chains and cuffs and do not leave even a faint scuff mark on the wood. He snaps his jaw shut to prevent himself from screaming and manages to bite down hard on his tongue, filling his mouth with the bitter taste of blood.

He squints at Collins, at the stolen face of the love of his life, and bares his bloodied teeth, hoping to express his rage and determination. He succeeds, judging by the aggravation in Collins’s expression and the responding snarl. Percival soon pays dearly for his attitude, his refusal to bend and break, as Collins pulls bitter, gritty magic from his very core and pours it into Percival’s suffering. The manic ex-Auror focuses on Percival’s injured leg at first, but soon the effects of the cutting spells and Cruciatus curses begins to rise and spread and Percival sinks into himself and imagines he is far, far away…

 

Percival spends the fifth day in a haze. Fleetingly aware of the dusty light and the passage of time and the red splattered across the floor. He knows he is alone, can feel the harsh buzz of the wards around his prison and the emptiness encasing him as easily as he can breathe.

Coincidentally, his breathing is a touch restricted, but looking down to see the problem is useless. His eyes won’t or can’t focus. His mind cannot process the shapes and colors that he sees, can put no meaning to the world. Everything spins and blurs and turns to black for long stretches or maybe only seconds. He really can’t tell.

He wonders if this is the end of it, but only vaguely, only passingly. He feels very little aside from a faint throbbing and a distant curiosity. He is detached from his self and entirely unconcerned. So, maybe this is where he ends, maybe it isn’t.

He’ll just have to wait and find out.

 

On day six, Percival is roused by the sensation of ice water being dumped over his head. He jolts into crisp clarity and for the first few seconds, he is relieved to be self-aware again. Then the pain and the anxiety returns and he wishes he could go back to being numb.

Groaning, Percival clenches and unclenches his hands—the only part of him that doesn’t seem to hurt—and tips his head back, eyes pinched shut while he focuses on evening out his breathing. When he feels ready, or as ready as he can be, he takes stock of himself. What he sees is not pretty and nauseates even his iron constitution; perhaps because he has never looked on such damage and injury on his own person before.

Another ice water sensation drops on his head and Percival twists to look behind himself. He can’t see much and cannot turn very far without agitating the wounds across his torso, but he picks up on commotion in his peripheral.

Has he been found at last?

The ice water sensation is a result of the wards being cracked, tampered with, possibly even broken through. Either Collins has made an enemy of another powerful wizarding force or the MACUSA has arrived to reclaim their man. Both seem equally likely to Percival.

A sudden beam of light streaks across the floor, illuminating the stained floorboards and haloing the shadow of a man sprinting into the space. Percival feels a small sprig of hope take root in his chest and then has it crushed underfoot as Collins enters his range of vision.

Collins is more disheveled than Percival has ever seen him: heavy bags under his eyes, skin sallow, chest heaving with every breath, and his eyes more wild than ever. Those manic eyes land on Percival and Collins’s entire expression twists into something ugly and violent. He raises his wand, Unforgivable words on his lips, dark magic pulsing in the air around them… And before Percival can finish resigning himself to this fate, something bright and glimmering collides with the side of Collins’s head and brings the man to the ground.

Percival blinks, stunned, uncomprehending. Then he looks at his fallen nemesis and watches with his mouth hanging open as Vasska the Swooping Evil presses her muzzle to Collins’s ear and begins to feast on his brain.

An earthy, animal smell reaches him and Percival’s heart squeezes in his chest. A sob hitches in his chest as Newt, beautiful incandescent _Newt_ , steps into his line of sight. Newt doesn’t even glance at the blood or the gore, his eyes are fixed solely on Percival’s as he reaches out with warm, soft hands and holds his lover’s face for the first time in days.

“Darling,” Percival rasps.

 _You’re safe, love_ , shapes Newt’s plush lips. _We’ve come to bring you home_.

Percival sinks into Newt’s touch, into relief, and into the comfort of sleep.


	3. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healer Curio enters his room with a carefully neutral expression and Percival knows the time has come to face what has been done. Newt takes his hand in support and by the set of his face, Percival knows his love has already been informed of the extent of his injury. When she folds back the blankets and reveals what has been done, Percival is… Unsurprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that disagreement I had with this chapter turned into a complete overhaul... Then that was interrupted by midterms and a lot of research-intensive projects, then I had a brief nervous breakdown, then I went to see Crimes of Grindelwald, then I got hilariously drunk with my family on Thanksgiving, and then finally finished the chapter. I really hope it was worth waiting for..!

_Here in the final draft, I’ve given all I have_

_Strange how the heart expands in the absence of a plan_

_There’s nothing left on the page, but I’m okay with that_

_For I’ve found my_ resolution _was designed for stronger hands_

(Page 28 – Sleeping At Last)

\- - -

 

Percival is in the hospital for three weeks. Much of that time is spent sleeping while his body heals, the final five days are spent eating bland foods and trying not to think of how familiar this situation is. Now entering his fourth week at St. Agatha’s, Percival resigns himself to repeating the worst moments of his life and halfheartedly prays it will never happen again. He can’t help but recall returning from his _first_ time in captivity and how he felt anxious and impatient towards the end of his stay in St. Agatha’s. He remembers feeling stir-crazy and itchy, keen to get back on his own two feet.

Percival doesn’t feel that way this time around. The lower half of his right side aches constantly despite the pain potions fed to him in careful doses and he dreads the moment Healer Curio tells him it is time to start walking again. He dreads this to the point that every time the door alert flashes on his bedside table, his heartrate spikes tellingly and doesn’t calm until he sees that his visitor is not here to coax him out of bed.

Hours after he wakes on the first day of the fourth week, Tina comes in to visit him. She calmly places his wand on the bedside table, hugs him despite the awkward positioning, and then reprimands fiercely him for making her so damned worried. Percival receives her anger and anxiety with his chin up; she cares, she was afraid, she needs to release all the emotion pent up inside her. And when she finally subsides, she sinks into the bedside chair like a puppet whose strings have been cut and slides a hand deep into her coat pocket. When she withdraws, a tiny newborn-sized occamy is curled like glossy string around her fingers.

“Daphne didn’t handle being away from you very well,” Tina tells him, expression now contrite. Before Percival can wonder what she means, Daphne’s tiny head swivels towards him and the occamy grows several feet as she launches herself off Tina’s hand. Her beak is gaping wide and, as a result, Tina’s expression tightens with discomfort; Percival is fleetingly relieved he cannot hear whatever unholy screeching is coming from his creature companion.

Then she settles on his chest and rubs the side of her face along Percival’s jaw, over and over like an assertively affectionate cat.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Percival whispers to her. “I missed you.”

Daphne buzzes against his skin and fluffs her plumage happily. Percival gently touches the bald spots on her belly, just below her wings and before her feet, and along the rightmost side of her tail. The exposed patches of skin are pink and pitted with pores where feathers are meant to grow. Newt will have something to help them along and the soothe the dry, flaky flesh that was never meant to be directly exposed to the outside world.

_Newt_. Thinking of his absent lover sends a pang through Percival’s chest. He steels himself and turns his face towards Tina.

“Tell me everything,” he orders, though he knows his voice is strained. He can feel the rasp in his throat.

Tina, to her credit, doesn’t even try to tell him not to worry about it, that it’s being handled and he ought to just rest. She’s knows him better than that. She merely nods and straightens her posture so he may see her hands and face clearly.

“Turns out I was right,” she says with a grim expression. “They were hiding something from us. Right after you disappeared, I went right to Picquery and she authorized use of Veritaserum on one of our detainees. Emergency status and all. I used it on Thompson and he gave us everything.”

Tina pauses, summons herself a glass of water and offers one to him. Percival takes it, takes a sip, places it back on the bedside table. Tina continues.

“Collins had been planning this for months. All those attacks, all those circles he made us run in…he was looking for a way in.”

“He wasn’t after Credence?” asks Percival, skeptical.

“Oh, he was, sir. He definitely wanted Credence dead, but that would’ve been a bonus. So, when Milton attacked Newt and he was able to collect a blood sample…”

“That was the _in_ Collins was waiting for,” Percival finishes, feeling vaguely sick. He strokes rhythmic lines down Daphne’s back to comfort himself. “But why enter MACUSA? Why take that risk?”

“Because we wouldn’t expect it, especially not of him,” says Tina. She hesitates, dark news evident in her eyes, something she has to tell him that she knows he will not like. Percival waits and it does not take long for Tina to strengthen her resolve and come out with it: “There was a mole.”

The drinking glasses on the table shatter, causing Tina to flinch, and water spills over the edge onto the floor. This is the only outward display of Percival’s rage.

“Who?” he asks with deadly calm.

Tina doesn’t name anyone immediately, she takes a circuitous route instead. “Collins needed someone to pick at the warding around the building, to weaken them in a way that wouldn’t draw any attention. It had to be done slow, over the course of months, sir. Portkeys are so tightly controlled, see, so Collins probably got the idea to use one to get you where he wanted you early on. He needed someone inside, someone he knew and could control…”

Percival’s mind jumps to two people: Leonard Lynch and Verity Quailfoot. Both could be controlled by Collins, the former through their history as friends and the latter through fear and intimidation. Either one would be a heavy blow to the department; a betrayal by a Senior Auror or a new recruit easily turned bad. Percival doesn’t know which is worse and he isn’t sure which he would prefer it to be.

Although, part of him points out, could a witch as young as Quailfoot be advanced enough to untangle the warding without triggering any alarms?

_Could Lynch?_ counters another part of him.

Water drips to the floor in a steadily slowing stream, sparkling and silent. Percival watches and remembers a time when he shattered every piece of dishware in his home and how Newt meticulously put it all back together.

He wonders where Newt is right now, because he thinks he saw Vasska take Collins down, but he can’t be sure. He wasn’t in the best condition at the time.

“Who?” he asks again, eyes snapping back to Tina.

Tina’s expression is grim when she says, “Leonard Lynch.”

An immense boulder drops onto Percival’s chest, weighs down his diaphragm and squeezes out his lungs. All those guilty glances and earnest attempts…all the times it seemed that Lynch felt guilty for once having the same opinion as his erstwhile friend. Percival remembers hoping for Lynch to learn from his mistake and become stronger for it. He remembers the growing relief with every piece of evidence and information Lynch brought forward.

Percival is still staring at Tina, his face stale and unchanged, so she forges on. “Lynch brought the Portkey in once he knew he could get it past the wards, had it waiting for when Collins could get in.” She pauses, but Percival still does not speak. “We already have him in custody, awaiting trial with the rest of Collins’s following. It’s likely he’ll go away for a long time.”

_And Collins_? Percival asks, not bothering with trying to use his voice. He’s too furious, too ragged with emotion.

“Dead,” says Tina. “I guess you weren’t fully conscious when it happened, but, uh, Vasska sort of…ate his brain.”

Percival nods slowly, processing, and then signs, _Newt_?

A small smile relieves the tension in Tina’s face. “He ought to be here just as soon as he escapes from Queenie and Jacob. He was here most days that you were sleeping, but after two weeks, we all banded together to make him take care of himself.”

Percival huffs a laugh as fondness overtakes him. He touches the fingers of his right hand to his lips and lowers his flat hand in Tina’s direction. _Thank you_.

Tina just nods and shrugs a shoulder in an obvious _of course_ manner, then she pauses and reacts to audio stimulus. Percival twists his neck to look, but cannot quite see past the gathered post of privacy curtain set between him and the door. So, he waits and watches a vaguely smug expression appear on Tina’s face. Percival’s directorial instinct wants to say something sharp to take the smug off her face, but his words stop in his throat when Newt steps up beside her. And it _is_ Newt, undoubtedly. The smell of wet earth and red clay and vegetation and the feel of warm, raw magic washes over him and Percival feels momentarily intoxicated by it.

Newt is somehow more beautiful than ever in the yellowy light of Percival’s private hospital room. He is pale and thin, more so than is normal, his cheeks hollow and his eyes tired, his hair hangs in limp curls about his ears, but he is smiling in happy relief. After a moment, however, his chin begins to wobble and his eyes grow watery.

_Hello, my love_ , he signs.

Percival lifts his own hands to sign back, but his fingers are shaking and all he wants to do is hold this man he has not seen in so very long. Percival reaches out and Newt is rushing to meet him before the motion is completed. Newt drops himself on the bed’s edge and lets himself be pulled snugly to Percival’s chest. Percival revels the feel of his lover, solid and real and _alive_ , in his arms. He tucks his nose into Newt’s hair and breathes the scent of him as though he’s been holding his breath and has only just now remembered how to breathe.

Percival feels Tina’s magical signature grow distant and then disappear as she leaves the room.

Then Newt is sitting back and scrubbing his cheeks dry with brisk motions. He straightens his back and takes a deep breath. Percival braces for the coming lecture.

“Don’t you ever send me away again,” Newt scolds, jumping right into to crux of the matter with concise signs. “You did it for my safety, I am aware, but just because I understand why you did it doesn’t mean you ought to ever do it again.” Newt leans forward abruptly and presses a sweet, close-lipped kiss to Percival’s mouth and draws back before Percival can reciprocate. Newt says, “I won’t make you promise to never send me away again, I know you, but if it ever happens again, I will reconsider.”

As far as threats go, this is a very good one and it plays precisely into Percival’s weaknesses in a way only a lover could know to do. Percival cups Newt’s face in his palms, cherishes the feel of those warm cheeks and spares a moment to stroke a thumb over the lush line of his lips, and says when he has gained direct eye-contact, “You know I will always try.”

Newt nods and shapes, “I know.”

Percival says earnestly, “I love you.”

Newt smiles and says, “I know.” He curls his hands over Percival’s. “I love you, too.”

Percival pulls Newt in for a long, sweet kiss, thumbs stroking his love’s cheeks as he savors the feel of him. Newt melts against him and stays draped over Percival’s chest even when the kiss ends. Daphne wriggles her way out from where she’s been hiding under the corner of Percival’s pillow and scrambles across the mattress to nuzzle her face against Newt’s. Percival feels and see Newt shake with laughter, watches his hand come round to gently stroke Daphne’s re-growing plumage.

With obvious reluctance, Newt sits up to free his hands. “What a bunch we are,” he says and signs. “You and I recently out of comas, our familiars picking up bad habits out of stress… Pickett has been more attached than he was even in the early days, won’t leave my collar.”

To demonstrate, Newt turns a bit to the side and tugs down the collars of his shirt and jacket. Percival can just about see the green of Picket’s leafy head tugged in the crook of Newt’s neck. He chuckles.

“We’re a mess,” he agrees.

Newt smiles. “That’s alright.”

 

\- - -

 

The moment Percival has been dreading comes the next day. He has been making a valiant effort to pretend not to notice the peculiar pains in his right leg, but there is only so much willful ignorance a man of his stature can abide. His right knee was already damaged and then Collins went and destroyed it again. That paired with the drastic splinching and Percival knows that what he finds under the blanket and the bandages will not be pretty.

Healer Curio enters his room with a carefully neutral expression and Percival knows the time has come to face what has been done. Newt takes his hand in support and by the set of his face, Percival knows his love has already been informed of the extent of his injury. Percival takes a deep breath and nods to tell Curio to go ahead.

When she folds back the blankets to reveal the rounded stump a few inches above where his knee once was and the tangled web of scars that wrap about his thigh, Percival is… Unsurprised. It is as he suspected. He sighs.

“It’s healed up nicely,” says Curio, flicking her wand and inspecting the results. “Minimal swelling, no infection, it’s all as well as can be. Considering.” She goes to cover him with the blankets again, but Percival stops her. He needs to see it for a little longer. Curio continues, “I recommend you talk to a therapist, but that is ultimately your decision, and you’ll have to start physical therapy, too. That one is mandatory if you ever want to walk again.”

“What options do I have for that?” he asks, not out of spite or despair, but simple practicality.

“You can use a crutch or we can build you a prosthesis.”

A crutch is out of the question. It took long enough for him to accept needing a cane and a cane is far less obtrusive.

“Tell me about the prosthesis,” he inquires.

“I thought you’d be interested in those,” says Curio, lip twitching in a smile.. “We would have a wandmaker come in and take measurements of your left leg, which they would then use to construct a mirror copy out of wand wood. Once made, it’ll need a core, something specific to you to avoid a _wand choosing the wizard_ situation. After a bit of practice with our physical therapist, you’d be able to walk and move about as usual. Your magic ought to allow you to bend and manipulate your knee and ankle just as you would if it were flesh.”

Honestly, it sounds as if Curio is telling him he’ll be able to walk better than he did before his leg was amputated.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s do that.”

Newt squeezes his hand and when Percival looks over, his magizoologist is beaming proudly at him.

“Excellent,” says Healer Curio. “I will contact the wandmaker right away. Before I do, though, what is your wand wood?”

Percival says, a touchy wryly, “Black walnut.”

Curio sighs and seems to barely refrain from rolling her eyes and she shapes, “Of course it is. The wandmaker should be here tomorrow.” Then she smiles and nods at Percival and sweeps out of the room.

Newt taps his hand for attention and then asks with a smirk, “Black walnut? Really?”

Percival sighs a sigh that devolves into a breathy chuckle. “Yes, yes, I know.”

“I’m impressed, Mr. Graves,” says Newt and indeed there is a shine of admiration in his eyes. Black walnut is an uncommon material, notoriously choosy, and difficult to master. According to wandlore, a black walnut wand seeks a master of good instincts and powerful insight and once it has chosen, it is fiercely loyal. And truly, once young Perry, still new to Ilvermorny, adjusted to fit and feel of his wand, it never gave him an ounce of trouble. Despite all the misfires and minor disasters of learning magic Percival only ever felt patience in the grip of his wand. As he advanced and came into his power more fully, his wand always seemed to sing when he wielded it.

Percival smiles at Newt. “Why, thank you, Mr. Scamander.”

They sit peacefully for a few minutes, enjoying each other’s company, and Percival makes himself trace his eyes over every aspect of Newt’s face while focusing on the feel of his love’s unique magic. This is Newt. The real Newt. And though Collins was never able to fool him, Percival can’t help the illogical shiver of nerves that prickle on the back of his neck.

Damn Collins. _Damn him_.

“How is Vasska?” Percival asks abruptly, for once speaking before he fully thinks his words through.

Newt’s cheeks immediately turns a fetching shade of pink. “Oh, well…”

“I only ask,” says Percival, “because I want to make sure there were no ill effects for her after eating a mentally damaged brain.”

Newt stares at him, blinks owlishly, and then begins to giggle. Abruptly, he claps his hands over his mouth—Percival can only imagine why, but he suspects it has to do with the sudden welling of moisture in Newt’s eyes—and he stands jerkily from his seat. Newt goes to sit with Percival on the bed, but his unexpected movements, much to Percival’s own horror, causes him to flinch. Newt freezes.

Percival tamps down his irrational reaction and opens his arms. “You only startled me, darling. Come here.”

Newt, thankfully, does not hesitate and climbs onto the bed. He curls against Percival’s chest and almost immediately begins to shake as he cries. Alarmed, all Percival can do is hold on and murmur sweetly to his love. Again, he can only imagine what is going through Newt’s head and can only wait for Newt to calm down enough to tell him what has caused this reaction. So he smooths a hand down the length of Newt’s back and he waits and if his own eyes get misty in the meantime, no one else is around to see.

 

\- - -

 

Percival’s new right leg stands on the floor, propped against his bedside table. The sock that covers his stump is rolled up and waiting inside the leg’s socket. They arrived this morning, two days after the wandmaker came in to take measurements, and Percival has not yet touched either. He doesn’t have the courage.

He has moved to a chair by the window, enjoying the feeling of sunlight on his skin. Across from him, waiting with eternal patience, is Mathilda Merry. She has one knee folded over the other, her hands loosely clasped atop them, and maintains an utter stillness while she watches her patient’s expression. Percival is staring out the window, fingers tangled together and held that way by his occamy, who also has her talons dug into the blanket across his lap. He’d been halfway through telling her about his stay here at St. Agatha’s when he’d trailed off.

Finally, Percival heaves a sigh and comes back to himself. He finds Mathilda sitting peacefully and smiling gently at him and goes to scrub a hand down his face. When he cannot free his hand from Daphne’s hold, his eyes are drawn down to his occamy and then inevitably to the impression of his stump under the blanket.

Mathilda reaches out to touch his knee—his existing one—to get his attention.

“Will you allow yourself to mourn,” she asks, “before resorting to the destruction of personal property?”

Percival snorts. “I suppose I ought to.”

“Ought to, yes,” Mathilda repeats with a dry expression. “ _Will_ you?”

“I feel as though I already have,” he says. Pauses, then amends, “Somewhat.” Pauses again, then explains, “When I woke up…chained to that chair… I looked down at myself and I saw what a mess my knee was and I. Some part of me just knew. Between the initial injury and then being struck by a no-maj vehicle and then Collins… I wasn’t shocked when Healer Curio told me she was forced to amputate.”

Mathilda nods slowly, understandingly, and then says, “It’s still a loss.”

“And I already have something to make up for it.”

“You’ve barely looked at it.” Mathilda fixes Percival with a _Look_ and when he says nothing in his own defense, she nods curtly and sits back victoriously. Then, with a sly gleam in her eye, says, “I don’t say things like this often, but, Percival, that’s a very handsome leg you have over there.”

Percival snorts a laugh.

Mathilda does have a point, though. The wandmaker did an excellent job creating the prosthesis. It’s perfectly proportioned and even has the impression of toes carved into the foot. The socket is a soft, supple leather with a wand wood cap that forms the top half of the false knee joint.

“I need a moment,” he says. “Before I can try putting it on, I just. I need a moment.”

“And that’s fine,” Mathilda assures him, “but in the meantime, you have to talk to someone. If you can’t talk to me, talk to Newt or to Tina. You know it will help.”

“Logically, yes,” Percival agrees easily enough. “That doesn’t mean opening up becomes less difficult.”

Mathilda’s mouth quirks in a sideways smile, proud of the words that have just been spoken by a patient, words that she herself has used many times. Percival sees her expression and suppresses a sigh; his mental health is less in shambles than it used to be, _he knows_.

“Will you tell me more about Newt’s last visit?” Mathilda asks.

Percival hesitates, glances out the window at the streaming sunshine as it bounces between buildings and warms the city. Then he says, quietly, “I flinched, again, when he reached for me. Collins never fooled me for more than a few seconds, but it was still enough to…” He shakes his head. “He won’t say anything, you know how Newt is, but it breaks his heart every time it happens. I can see it in his eyes.”

“Talk to him,” Mathilda says immediately.

“I have,” says Percival. “He knows, logically, what the real issue is, but this isn’t a logical response. We both know that.”

“Then it’s a matter of time,” says Mathilda. “Healing always requires time.”

Percival looks down the impression of his stump, the last remnants of his right leg, and a bitter pit forms in his stomach. His eyes well up suddenly and a lump rises in his throat. Daphne unwraps herself from around his hands and climbs his shirt to coil protectively around his neck; her beak rubs affectionately against his cheek. He thinks of all the weeks spent waiting at Newt’s side, waiting for these gorgeous green eyes to open up again, and how now that Newt is awake, he can’t be in his presence without flinching away.

He thought he was ruined when Grindelwald rendered him deaf and he feels ruined once again now that Collins has cost him his leg. And now he is both deaf and crippled and while he knows he is not incapable, he fears this is the end of his active career. He is forty-one years old, his magic is strong, _he_ was strong, but how can he operate in an active, dangerous investigation like… _this_? Deaf and crippled.

He is vaguely aware of Mathilda fluttering her fingers in his line of sight, urgently trying for his attention so she may communicate, but Percival isn’t giving it to her. He is spiraling, because his career is everything to him and surely this time he has truly lost it.

He will still have Newt, he _knows_ that and he has _faith_ in that, but he will not be able to bear _himself_ and Newt deserves someone whole of mind. For Mercy’s sake, Newt was _attacked_ by Grindelwald wearing Percival’s face and yet the magizoologist never once shied away from him. Even at their very first meeting, Newt never held a trace of doubt or fear for the man whose face caused him such anguish. Doesn’t Percival owe him the same in return?

As if summoned by his thoughts, the taste and texture of Newt’s magic graces his senses and settles over him like a blanket. Percival lifts his head at last and finds Mathilda retreating as Newt takes her vacated chair across from him. They stare at each other for a long moment, bright verdant eyes and deep dark brown.

_What do you need_ , Newt signs. He doesn’t try to reach for Percival and that breaks his heart.

Percival shakes his head. He lifts right hand, forms a fist, and makes a few clockwise circles on his chest. _I’m sorry._

_Whatever for_? asks Newt.

Percival struggles for the words and makes a few half-completed motions, before he decides how best to start. _You never doubted. Grindelwald—_ the sign designated to the dark wizard is one Percival’s ASL teacher invented: a raised middle finger that starts upright and rotates to point to the floor— _attacked you, but you were never afraid of me. And now you cannot hold out your hand without scaring me._

The expression on Newt’s face is one of sadness. On anyone else it might make Percival burn with anger, he has never needed pity from another person, but Newt does not pity him. Newt’s sorrow comes from empathy and understanding.

Newt signs: _Grindelwald never held me hostage for six days and tortured me with your face._

Percival was also never fooled by the guise, not really, but when he lifts his hands to say this, Newt shakes his head.

_You can’t help your reactions,_ the redhead goes on, _it’s instinctual, not emotional. I don’t care if it takes months for this instinct to fade, I’m just happy you’re safe._ Newt pauses, but his hands are still poised to continue communicating, so Percival waits. The lump in his throat expands a touch at the obvious emotion in Newt. _I woke up alone at St. Mungo’s_ —he has to fingerspell the name and Percival might’ve misread it if not for context— _it was an hour before Theseus arrived. The Healers almost didn’t let him in. I was bloody furious when I realized what you had done, the Healers thought I was either hysterical or hallucinating._

Percival knows he has made some small, wounded sound because Daphne grows quite a bit and wraps herself about his shoulders as if to embrace him. She presses her face more firmly into the crook of his neck and he can feel the warmth of her breath down the front of his shirt.

_By the time I was discharged, you’d already been taken,_ signs Newt. _When I finally convinced Theseus to let me come back here, you’d been gone three days._ _Nobody knew where you were or how to find you. Tina said it was like the last time all over again._

No need to ask for clarification about _the last time_ , no one is likely to forget about that any time soon. Tina least of all seeing as she is the one who eventually succeeding in finding him.

Percival knows what happened after Newt returned to New York. He joined the effort to interrogate hideout locations from the followers in custody, performed every variation of a locating spell he could think of, and even offered a few of Percival’s belongings to his creatures in the hopes that one could sniff him out.

Newt’s niffler—Darby, the blasted, beautiful menace—was the one to bring them to the neighborhood around the warehouse Percival was held in, but it was Lynch who finally cracked and gave them the address.

_When we found you,_ signs Newt and he has to stop to shake out his hands, as if that will keep them from trembling. He starts again. _When we found you, you were barely conscious. You looked right at me and you._

Newt has to stop again. Tears build up in his eyes and spill over, tracing only halfway down his cheeks before he hastily wipes them away. Percival wants to reach out to him, wants to pull Newt into his lap and hold him and stroke his hair, but he is frozen. Inside he is a mess of ugly emotion, desire and doubt twisting like enemy serpents in his gut while shame and guilt batter against his brain.

_I thought I’d found you only to have you die in my arms_ , Newt eventually forms with unsteady fingers. He takes a deep breath and steels himself. _So you see, I will take your flinching with joy, because at least you are alive._

Mercy Lewis, what did Percival ever do to deserve this man? With a twist of his wrist, he pulls Newt’s chair closer to his so he can cup his hands around the magizoologist’s startled expression and kiss the breath from his lungs. Newt melts immediately against him and throws his arms around Percival’s neck, accidentally dislodging Daphne in the process. Percival feels Newt’s grip tighten in the back of his shirt, can feel the fierce glow of his magic reflecting the depth of his passion, and he is humbled. Humbled and made more deeply in love than he thought he could be.

Percival thought he was ruined when Grindelwald took his hearing, but he incorporated his deafness into his strength and made himself greater for it. Now Collins has cost him half his leg and Percival can hardly remember why such a trivial thing made him feel so defeated.

 

\- - -

 

Healer Curio comes in later in the day to help Percival put on his new leg for the very first time. Newt hovers nearby, smiling and supportive and ever afflicted by an awkward nature in the presence of people he does not know well. Percival appreciates his lover’s presence all the same.

Curio flicks her wand and rolls up the right leg of Percival’s trousers to his mid-thigh, exposing the gnarled scar tissue and rounded stump. She holds out the thin, wooly sock meant to cushion the prosthetic against his skin and waits while Percival snugs the little garment in place.

“Now,” she says, holding up the wooden leg. “The knee joint here detaches— _revelabis_ ,” at the touch of Curio’s wand, the fabricated joint lifts away and reveals the smooth attachment surface and, when Percival squints at it, a thin circular seam. Curio taps her wand twice on the center of the circle and says, “ _Cistem aperio_.” The circular piece in the leg spins and rises, revealing itself to be much longer than Percival expected by several inches. Curio directs the cylindrical peg to stand on the bedside table.

“Here is where you need to supply a core,” she says to Percival. “In most cases, it’s a lock of hair from the one the prosthetic is intended for, but something meaningful to you will work as well.”

Percival considers for a moment what he mind use as a core for his leg—and what an odd phrase that is—and drags a hand through his hair. His fingers come away with a few loose strands and, at a loss of anything better, directs those strands into the leg’s open compartment. Before he or Curio can summon the peg to seal the compartment, Percival feels something nudge against his elbow. He looks down and finds Daphne, coiled at his side and busily preening the feathers of her right wing. She seems particularly intent on her task, though, and is bumping the plumed end of her tail against his arm in a manner than cannot be accidental.

Once she finishes sorting through her primaries, Daphne moves on to her secondary flight feathers and nibbles at the roots with small, practiced movements. Halfway down the length of her wing, her progress stops and she begins nibbling at a particular feather with single-minded focus. A moment later, the feather comes free cleanly and, with a delighted full-body quiver, Daphne stretches out to present Percival with a glittering, turquoise feather. Percival takes the feather gently between his forefinger and thumb and transfers it to the hand further from Daphne so he can rub her chin in gratitude.

“Thank you,” he murmurs to her and she butts her head happily into his palm. Smiling, Percival glances up at Newt and finds the magizoologist is positively _glowing_ with adoration. Percival drops the feather into the leg’s hollow and then summons the peg.

Curio takes it from it and slides it into place, then taps it with her wand and says, “ _Sigillum clausas_.” The circular seal gleams white for a second and then fades away until there is no visible sign of an opening. Then she calls over the joint and with another touch of her wand and a murmured, “ _Affectum_ ,” reattaches the two pieces. She holds the limb out to Percival and raises an expectant eyebrow.

Percival takes it right away and feels the wood immediately warm in his hands. He grins as the experimental tendril of magic he sends out is instantly accepted by the prothesis. Another look to Newt shows him the magizoologist is still beaming with pride for him.

Curio waves for his attention and says, “Very good. This leg is rather like your wand, another witch or wizard could try to use it themselves and manage well enough, but it will always be the most responsive when you wear it.”

Interesting. Percival wonders if this by design or happy accident and makes a mental note to look into it at another time should he have the inclination. At the moment, he is more keenly interested in applying his new limb and testing it out. Healer Curio doesn’t offer an explanation either and simply goes on to direct him in sliding the socket over his stump. The thing does not feel at all stable when Percival slips it into place, it feels liable to fall right off the moment he tries to stand, but Curio doesn’t give him a moment to question her. She tells him to lift his wand and then teaches him the precise movements that accompany the incantation that will make the leg stay put until he decides to remove it.

Percival keeps his wrist soft, as directed, when he forms the fluid shape of the spell and murmurs, “ _Crura coniuncta_ ,” over his false leg. He has barely finished speaking the words when he feels his magic rush through him and envelope the prosthesis, embrace it like an old friend, and then settle into its usual thrum beneath his skin.

“Excellent,” Curio shapes. “When you want to remove the leg, use that same wand movement and say ‘ _crura disiuncta_ ’. I’m sure you’ll be doing this all silently and wandlessly in no time.”

Percival chuckles and holds out a hand to Newt, inquiring, “Help me stand, darling?”

Newt comes forward immediately and, with the Healer on his other side, helps ease Percival to his feet. He leans heavily on Newt for a moment, then carefully shifts his weight to his center, though he keeps a firm grip on the sleeve of Newt’s jacket. From the corner of his eye, he can see Curio mouthing words of encouragement out of habit and he finds this rather comforting.

With a deep breath, Percival loosens his grip on Newt and Newt responds by lightening the touch of his own hand on Percival’s arm. Standing on his own, relatively unaided, is… Odd. For Percival, sensation ends somewhere around mid-thigh, but his magic is able to fill the empty space and provide him with a muted sense of where his new foot is in relation to the floor. He is not accustomed to this kind of magical compensation, but the same was said when his ability to feel and taste magic in the air manifested itself. After a few seconds of testing his balance, Percival finds it surprisingly easy to acclimate to his new state of being.

Newt flicks his wand and summons Percival’s wampus-handled cane. He holds it out and Percival takes it gratefully. Curio retreats from his right side now that he has his preferred walking aid and moves back several paces, giving Percival a target to aim for. With Newt’s feather-light presence at his left, Percival focuses on the magic being directed into the black walnut leg and visualizes himself taking a single step forward. He wobbles when he starts putting weight on the prosthetic, diverts a bit of that weight to his cane, and then recovers his center of gravity.

The five steps forward to meet Healer Curio are slow and awkward; the five steps back to his bed leave his legs shaking and his spirit soaring.

 

\- - -

 

Percival is released a week later. The only damage done to him that magic could not fix was the untreated splinching of his leg. He has done seven days of physical therapy with Healer Curio, finetuning his prosthesis and acclimating to new flow of magic within him. He’s been sent home with strict instructions to not overexert himself, to return for regular sessions with Curio, and a wheelchair so he can still be mobile without straining himself. Percival doesn’t bother with the Engorgement charm that will return the wheelchair to its normal size and puts the shrunken thing on a shelf in his wardrobe.

Newt tuts when he catches Percival doing this, not that Percival hears it but he does see the expression on Newt’s face. Percival raises his eyebrows with as much innocence as he can muster; his right leg is fine, he doesn’t need the chair. The charms and his own innate magical ability ensure that the leg fits comfortably and feels natural. The chair and the weekly sessions are merely precaution.

_I’m fine_ , Percival signs and Newt responds with a (rather adorable) skeptical expression. Percival huffs a laugh and signs again, _I’m fine. Promise_. He crowds in close, forcing Newt to shuffle backwards until his knees hit the edge of the mattress, and then grins as he gives the slighter man a gentle push. Newt bounces on the quilt, cheeks flushed, hair fluffed, and lips pulled into a brilliant smile. Percival takes a moment to admire this man he loves so dearly, sprawled with his hands thrown up at the sides of his head and his shirt coming untucked from his trousers. Newt is beaming, bright, and beautiful; aglow with earthy magic and the same wild, wonderful aura as the creatures he cares for.

Something inside Percival settles at the sight of him, something deep within that was knocked out of order and now, at last, has been corrected. His heart swells and he cannot help the besotted smile that overcomes his face as he shrugs out of his jacket, tosses it aside, and climbs onto the mattress. Newt is trembling with laughter as Percival plants his hands and knees on either side of the redhead’s body, his green eyes soft and lovely.

“I love you, Newton Scamander,” Percival says earnestly.

Newt’s response comes without hesitation, “And I love you, Percival Graves.”

 

\- - -

 

Percival is to be on desk duty again, but for once he does not mind in the least. In the wake of Collins’s death and the capture of his entire following, there is a veritable mess of paperwork to sort out. Percival is particularly interesting in making sure no blame of any sort falls on Newt or on Vasska. He is already drafting a report to explain how beasts can be expected to act according to the nature of beasts and thus the Swooping Evil cannot be held accountable or punished for her natural inclinations. Then he has six days’ worth of memories to submit to evidence, a meeting with the President, numerous reports to read through, and a bullpen full of Aurors to check on.

But first he intends to speak to Leonard Lynch.

Lynch is still being held in the basement, in the long-term holding cells where the MACUSA place criminals awaiting trial and sentencing. Grindelwald spent three months down here, under an ever-changing guard and, having caused such acute stress to his minders, relieved of his manipulative tongue—Abernathy still has not recovered fully from his turn on duty. Lynch is in a less severe holding cell as he poses no risk of persuading guards to harm themselves or turn coat.

Instead, Lynch is mid-level in the stacks of iron bars and sheet metal floors. Percival strides down the suspended walkway with his chin up and his hands loose at his side. Daphne is a snug, warm collar at his throat, one wing dangling comfortably between his shoulder blades and the other tucked up under the base of his skull. Her feathers have grown back beautifully with the help of Newt’s homemade salves. The occamy tenses and wriggles in response the shouts and jeers from the other prisoners, but does not unravel from her position.

Lynch is hunched on the cot when they reach him, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. He appears thoroughly contrite, but Percival does not allow himself to feel any sympathy; he has spent far too long being sympathetic to this man and believing his guilt to be genuine. Lynch lifts his head when he hears Percival approach and his face twists into weary resignation when he sees who has come to visit.

Percival casts a muffling and a disinclination charm to deter the others being held down here from listening in or watching their conversation. This is a private matter.

“Graves,” Lynch greets him, eyes despondent.

Percival doesn’t waste his breath on pleasantries. He’s too angry. “Why?” he bites out.

Lynch shakes his head. “He told me to.”

“And just how long were you in his pocket?”

At this, Lynch barks out a harsh laugh and drops his head back into his hands. Percival watches his shoulders jerk and he scowls; if Lynch is answering him, he cannot understand him. But then Lynch raises his head again and looks directly at Percival as he says, “I can’t remember a time I wasn’t in that man’s pocket. He’d say jump and I’d say, sure thing, how high? Didn’t matter he was married to a knock-out gal, he could give me an inch and I’d take it a mile. And didn’t he know it, too.”

“The letters from Anita, watching his family, all the intel you gave us,” Percival prompts.

“Given with his permission,” Lynch admits miserably. “He thought he could pull some kind of long con. Bit off more than he could chew, if you ask me, but. I always was a goddamned fool for that man.”

“So why betray him in the end?” asks Percival. “Goldstein tells me you’re the one who revealed the location of the warehouse.”

Lynch nods and his eyes go distant. “He was losing it. We all knew it, all of us who followed him… The others. They were in it for the anarchy, the opportunities taking out the Head of the DMLE would bring. Even losing his marbles, I was holding a torch for him, wanted him happy, wanted to bring him back to his old self if I could. But then I’d come to work and you just kept giving me chances to be better. Guess it came down to choosing between the man who lead me on and manipulated me or the man who trusted me to do my best.” Lynch signs and scrubs his hand over his face, then looks Percival in the eye to broadcast the depth of his sincerity, “I am sorry, Mr. Graves, that it took me so long to make the right choice.”

Lynch’s regret is obvious in his mannerisms and his openness. Percival now has the answers he wanted, as well as an apology he neither wants nor needs. He doesn’t particularly feel like accepting the apology, doesn’t feel his forgiveness is deserved, so he simply gives Lynch a tight nod.

“Your honesty is appreciated,” Percival says neutrally. “It will serve you well in court and ensure you get the sentencing you deserve.”

He starts to leave and Lynch waves abruptly to stop him. Percival’s blood goes cold at the implication and he turns slowly on his heel to stare at Lynch.

“I never told him,” says Lynch, “about your hearing. I guess it doesn’t matter now, but I wanted you know… I never told anyone.”

Percival has to force his jaw to unclench, force his hands to relax, and has to breathe through his nose for a minute before he is calm enough to ask, “When did you find out?”

“Just before the vehicle incident. It was my job to find a moment to, uh, to get you alone. I figured out where you were going and… I swear, I never told him. Didn’t seem right.”

Percival stares a moment longer, agitation making his blood boil and his muscles tense, then waves away his charms with a sharp gesture and storms to the lift. His hand begins to cramp because of the grip he has on his cane and the excess tension makes his stride feel awkward and unbalanced. The goblin running the lift eyes him warily and doesn’t obviously grouse when Percival barks at him to send them to the presidential floor.

His body feels beyond his control, likely to succumb to his own momentum and careen recklessly around corners and send him sprawling, but somehow he makes it Picquery’s office without incident. Seraphina is at her grand desk, not expecting him for another hour or so, and he sees her jump when he barges in. She regains her composure with lightning quickness, as usual, and stands to meet him. She sees the thunder in his face and waves the door shut and locked behind him with a posted notice not to interrupt.

“Percival,” she says, but he brushes past her. He needs to sit before he knocks himself over with his own aggravation. He drops his cane and then drops himself gracelessly onto one of the chairs by the fireplace. Seraphina lights the fire with a flick of her wand and seats herself across from him; then she waits. Percival does not make her wait long.

“He knows,” he says. “Lynch. He knows I’m deaf.”

Seraphina frowns. “Do you know if he has told anyone?”

Percival shakes his head. “He swore he hasn’t.”

“And do you believe him?”

Percival considers this; he thinks of the misery and of the hollow sorrow that bowed Lynch’s body. “I do.”

“Then what would you like to do about this?” asks Seraphina, ever taking the logical approach. “I can have him sworn to secrecy on the matter before he goes to trial or we can leave things as is and let the pieces fall where they may.”

On the one hand, swearing Lynch to secrecy is appealing as a short-term solution and for the preservation of Percival’s reputation and the perception of others on his efficacy. On the other hand, _the truth will out_. It is inevitable that more people will discover his deafness and it would be best for it to simply be a matter that has never come up than a guarded secret. Tina and Strenburg know and Quailfoot is picking up on sign language from the two of them already. His Aurors are intelligent, trained to sniff out secrets and search for the truth, it is only by the grace of distraction that they have not unconsciously turned their senses on Percival. Eventually a great enough lull will come and they will begin to truly take note of Percival’s peculiarities.

He sighs and says, “Let the pieces fall where they may.”

“That’s a brave choice, Percival,” Seraphina praises. “And the better one.”

“Quite right,” he says dryly, slumping back in his chair. He regards the lofted ceiling for a moment, then the wall of windows on the opposite side of the office and watches the beams of midday sunlight stream between buildings. New York, for all its business and claustrophobia, can be quite beautiful if you manage to look up at the just the right moment.

He looks back to Seraphina. “Shall we take bets on who will notice first and who will notice last?”

Seraphina laughs. “Abasi will be first or else you ought to demote him.”

Percival concedes the point with a tip of his head. “A junior will likely be last, which makes this tricky. We ought to start getting regular recruits from the academy now that all the trouble has blown over.”

Seraphina nods sagely. “Just first then and my money is on Abasi.”

“Quailfoot,” counters Percival. “She’s been letting Goldstein and Strenburg teach her sign language. If she’s any good at her job, she’ll start asking questions about why.”

“Winner treats the other to dinner?” asks Seraphina, posing the usual pot from their early days together when they had no heavy mantles upon their shoulders.

“Agreed.”

His long-time friend regards him with warm, dark eyes that glow with fondness.

“Feeling better now?” she asks.

“Yes,” Percival says on a sigh. Indeed the anger has passed. There is nothing for him to do in this situation, he can only let what will happen, happen and deal with the consequences, be they positive or negative. At the very least, the Collins fiasco is irrefutably over and Percival can finally, _finally_ , start getting back to his normal life. Then he thinks about the mountains of paperwork and the wards that need to be double-checked and the personnel files he ought to go through, just in case… Then he thinks about Newt with his wild hair and wilder heart, the radiance of his magic and his love, and the high flush that rises in his cheeks when Percival nibbles his neck just so…

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this,” he starts, letting the words drag from his lips to thoroughly ensnare Seraphina’s attention, “but I think I need a vaca—”

“Granted.”

Percival stares in shock, mouth still open around the word he did not finish speaking. Seraphina is visibly relieved and definitely excited.

“I never thought this day would come,” she confesses. “I’ve resigned myself to a term of forcing you to take breaks when you desperately need them. This calls for a celebration”—she rises swiftly, keeping her body angled towards Percival as she steps towards her desk so he can read her signing, _Let’s drink._

Percival laughs and lets her pour him a finger of whiskey when she returns to the armchairs.

“You are going to sit there and drink with me,” Seraphina tells him firmly, “then you are going to take your ass home to your beau and I will go inform Abasi that he is to act as Interim Director. Go on some insane adventure to see those creatures of his and don’t come back for two weeks. If you aren’t tanned from being outside an unholy amount when you return, I will fire you.”

It’s an empty threat, but it gets the point across. Percival holds up his tumbler and Seraphina lifts her to clink them together.

 

\- - -

 

Newt is absolutely delighted with Percival returns home and tells him the latest developments. The words have barely left Percival’s mouth before Newt is taking him by the cheeks and kissing him thoroughly. Then he begins to plan.

“We ought to go to London first,” says Newt, hands flying to form the signs as well and good thing, too. Newt’s words tend to run together when he’s excited and Percival has hard time lipreading on such occasions. “Formally introduce you to Theseus before he comes barging into MACUSA himself. I’ve had to talk him down a few times now. Oh, and you should know he’s a hugger.” Newt’s wrinkled nose expression tells Percival precisely what the younger Scamander thinks of that and he can’t help chuckling about it. Newt swats at him playfully.

A touch more serious now, Newt asks, “Are you sure you’re up for adventure?”

He is, of course, referring to Percival’s recent trauma and, specifically, to the newness of his prosthetic leg. Percival appreciates his concern, is indeed truly touched by it, but he is certain he can manage. And if not, well, it won’t matter where they land or where they end up having to remain while Percival recovers, because they will be together. Instead of saying this to Newt, though, Percival smiles and says, “Let’s call it a trial by fire.”

Newt shakes his head fondly and links his hands behind Percival’s neck. “An adventure with me means potentially breaking the law,” he warns.

“An adventure with you means definitely breaking the law,” Percival corrects with humor. “And I’m fully prepared to do my level-best to keep the law-breaking as minimal as possible.”

“You do enjoy a challenge.” Newt lets the mischief people so rarely suspect him of shine out in his eyes and in the sharpness of his smile.

“Why else would I be so attracted to you?” Percival asks, teasing, and Newt tips his head back as he laughs. Acting purely on impulse, Percival snugs his arms tighter around Newt’s waist and begins to rock them back and forth, swaying to silent music in the middle of their living room. Newt leans to rest his head on Percival’s shoulder and Percival feels the taller man’s happy sigh against his throat. They stay like this for a long while, entranced by and content in each other’s hold. Even when they inevitably have to part to care for the creatures, to prepare for travel, the warm feeling lingers and Percival is at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the official end of the Precious Metals series. Have I purposely left it open-ended enough for potential continuation? I sure have. Do I have any idea how I'm going to do that? Only slightly.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and commenting and kudos-ing. I love and appreciate each and every one of you. ♡


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